


I'm Fine

by fine_feathered_fiend



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Cards Against Humanity Prompts, Crack, F/M, I Tried, Season 1 Universe, Sick Bellamy, Sickfic, The Author Regrets Nothing, Worried Clarke, discussions on how to not be an idiot, embarrassed bellamy, i mean read the notes, it was so hard to make this somewhat tactful, it's not as bad as it sounds i swear, rated teen because of some swearing, sort of, this is what i was talked into writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7122316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fine_feathered_fiend/pseuds/fine_feathered_fiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bellamy comes down with the stomach flu, he's obviously unhappy. But when his illness starts expressing itself in... other ways... he's downright mortified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperfectinsanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectinsanity/gifts).



> Inspired by a very interesting game of Cards Against Humanity (The 100 Themed, of course)
> 
>  **Black Card:** “While running for Chancellor, Bellamy has to cover up all involvement with ___.”  
>  **White Card:** “Getting diarrhea on the ground.”
> 
> I ended up diverting from the cards a bit (Bellamy's not running for Chancellor because this is centered in Season 1) but otherwise, that's my inspiration! I hope you enjoy what has been dubbed by several people (ever so lovingly) as "The Shit Fic."

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, O.” Bellamy grumbled from underneath the tangle of blankets on his pallet.

Octavia rolled her eyes and stepped fully into Bellamy’s tent, not needing (or requesting) an invitation. “No, really. You look terrible. Have you seen Clarke?”

“I don’t need to, I’m fine.” Bellamy lied, more to himself than to Octavia. Objectively, he knew that he was sick. He could feel it in the way his head throbbed at all hours and the cramping pain that twisted in his gut, sharpening at random intervals. Bellamy suspected that something was wrong the first time he keeled over and vomited while scouting for herbs. (He did end up finding them, but apparently puking on a plant killed it pretty quickly, so _that_ mission was a bust.) His suspicions were more than confirmed once whatever illness he’d caught started expressing itself in… other ways… Ways that involved spending hours upon hours alone in the woods, dreaming of somehow being teleported back onto the Ark, because _at least the Ark has real toilets._ Still, there was no way in hell that Bellamy was going to see Clarke about it. He’d sooner chew off his own arm than sit down and explain to the fiery blonde the specific details of _how_ he was sick.

Octavia broke into Bellamy’s trance, foot tapping impatiently, clearly not buying his explanation. “Then why are you sleeping in the middle of the day, Bell?”

Bellamy sighed and propped himself up with an elbow. “I’ve been on night-watch for the past few days and I’m a little tired, alright?” Another lie, although not entirely. He’d been spending the past few nights in the woods, “patrolling,” for lack of a better term. God, he hated the ground. “That’s probably why I look like shit.” Bellamy added, trying not to pull a face at the last word.

Octavia looked Bellamy up and down, taking in his pathetically disheveled appearance. She paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to turn him in.

Bellamy shoved down his fatigue and swung up to a sitting position, pretending not to notice the way his head pulsed at the sudden exertion. “Look, you can ask Miller if you don’t believe me. He was on night-watch too.” Bellamy said, pulling on his boots with a sigh. Apparently catching a few hours of sleep just wasn’t going to happen. “In the meantime, do you mind telling me why you’re here?”

“Right--” Octavia shook her head quickly, as if to clear her thoughts, “--Clarke was looking for you.”

“Yeah?”

Octavia nodded, “She’s waiting for you in the medbay.”

Bellamy looked up, skeptical. “And this has nothing to do with my apparently shitty appearance?”

“I’m not turning you in, Bell.” Octavia groaned, pushing the tent flap ajar, “If you say that you’re fine then I believe you.” She added, more sincerely.

“Good.” Bellamy said, letting out a breath. _Thank god._ That was a conversation he didn’t want to have any time soon. Or ever.

“Then let’s get going.” He added, pulling on his worn out guard’s jacket and zipping it all the way up under his chin. With a nod, he pushed out of the tent, determinedly ignoring the way Octavia’s eyes burned a hole into the side of his head.

Octavia followed her brother out into camp, grumbling almost inaudibly, “I still think you look like shit though.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, “Shut up, I’m just tired.”

“Whatever you say, big brother.”

* * *

  


By the time the sun set, Bellamy found himself standing guard by the front gates, preparing for another night of “patrolling the woods.” (God, he was at his wits end with this… stuff…) A gritty feeling of exhaustion had settled behind his eyes and the knife in his gut had only dug deeper amidst his fatigue. Bellamy wanted nothing more than to just curl up in the fetal position on his pallet and wait for the sweet release of death. Unfortunately, _certain things_ had made it very clear that sticking around camp was _not_ an option.

So that left Bellamy at the camp’s gates. Again. Sifting quietly through his pack, making absolutely sure that he had everything needed for a less-than-pleasant night in the woods.

Miller looked over from his post. “So you’re heading out again?”

“Yep.” Bellamy continued sorting through his things, carefully setting a lump of Monty’s soap that he’d stolen from the medbay into one of the bag’s internal compartments. (He felt bad about stealing it, but if anyone needed the soap, it was him. That much he was sure of.)

“Any particular reason why?”

Bellamy sighed, hands deep in his pack, halfway through sorting through a dozen relatively forgiving leaves, “I’m just… patrolling the woods. Making sure everything’s safe.”

“For three nights in a row?” Miller questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m not done yet.” Bellamy cringed internally. _Nice answer. Totally not suspicious._ “I just mean that I haven’t covered all of the woods outside Grounder territory. That stuff takes time, Miller.” He added, hoping that the excuse was somewhat believable.

Miller paused for a moment, then sighed. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Bellamy zipped up his pack, slowly pulling it up and over his shoulder. “Thanks again for covering for me,” He said, genuinely. “I really appreciate it.” _More than you’ll ever know…_

Miller shrugged, “Hey, what are friends for, right?” A half-smile cracked across his face.

Bellamy returned the smile, “Still, I definitely owe you one.”

“Make that three.”

“Right,” Bellamy laughed tiredly, “I owe you three, Miller. You have my word.” _After this he can have my left foot, for all I owe him._

“I’ll hold you to it.” Miller said, not unkindly.

Bellamy nodded, then began trudging out into the woods. _Out into another night of hell._

But before he could get more than five steps away, Miller called out, “Hey, Bellamy?”

Bellamy looked back, “Yeah?”

“When do you think you’ll _‘be done?’_ ” Miller asked, emphasizing the last words in a way that Bellamy pretended not to notice.

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Bellamy dragged a hand over his face, feeling the last few days weigh him down like a rock. “Soon, hopefully.” There was more truth to his answer than he would’ve liked. He didn’t know how long the illness would last, and he definitely didn’t know how much longer he could keep himself going. The heavy combination of sickness and fatigue had worn him down to his core.

“Okay…” Miller glanced up at Bellamy, concern tinting his expression. “It’s just-- you look like you could really use some sleep.”

Bellamy gave a short, bitter laugh. “So I’ve heard.”

* * *

  


As expected, Bellamy’s night was terrible. Sleeping alone in the woods was uncomfortable enough on its own, but the worst part of it all was the time that he spent _not_ sleeping. And unfortunately, to Bellamy’s growing despair, there was still plenty of that.

 _Fuck the ground._ Bellamy grumbled to himself, sliding back under his designated pine tree after yet another horrific experience with “patrolling the woods.” If someone tried to off Bellamy at this point, he’d probably let them. (Not that he expected to get that lucky.)

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a nearby bush rustled, right on cue. Bellamy’s head shot up from where it was resting on his knees, and he scrabbled blindly for the rifle that was buried somewhere among the pine needles. _Why’d you have to go and think that? Now you’re probably going to die in the woods._ Bellamy’s hand found the grip of his rifle, and he swung it towards the sound, lined up the sight--

“It’s me! Don’t shoot!” Octavia stepped into the moonlight and immediately threw up her hands.

“Jesus, O.” Bellamy said, dropping the gun back into the dirt. “Thanks for the warning.”

Octavia sheathed a knife ( _where’d she get that?_ ) “What the hell are you doing out here, Bell??”

“How’d you find me?”

“Miller told me. Answer my question.” Octavia shot back without missing a beat.

 _Dammit, Miller. You just lost custody of my left foot._ Bellamy rolled his eyes. “I’m just--”

“I swear to god, Bellamy, if you even _think_ of saying _‘I’m just patrolling the woods,’_ I _will_ set Clarke on you.”

Bellamy’s mouth snapped shut.

Octavia stared down at her brother, anger and frustration (and worry?) drawing her expression into a frown. She raked her eyes over Bellamy’s hunched position, the dark circles under his eyes, the light sheen of sweat that covered his skin. Bellamy swallowed roughly as she began taking in the rest of the clearing. She glanced over his pack. The scattered pile of leaves he’d collected. Then her eyes fell on a distant hole in the ground that he’d been trying _very_ hard to not think about. Bellamy’s heart stopped.

Understanding dawned on Octavia’s expression. “You _are_ sick!” She looked back at Bellamy in triumphant disbelief. “I knew it!”

Bellamy stared up at her tiredly.

“Is this why you’ve been acting so weird?? You’ve been coming out here to--”

“--Oh my god, O.” Bellamy cut her off, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Yes, this is what I’ve been doing. Okay?”

“You need to see Clarke.” Octavia crossed her arms, matter of fact.

Bellamy scoffed, “There is no way in _hell_ I’m telling Clarke about this. Or _anyone_ , for that matter.” He glared up at Octavia, desperation seeping into his voice. “You can’t tell anyone, O.”

“What?! Bell, you can’t just keep hiding this!” Octavia argued.

“Yes, I can.”

“Bellamy--”

“--O, I’m _fine_. Or at least I will be, soon.” Bellamy amended. “I don’t need to see Clarke over this.”

Octavia pulled a face. “Are you sure about that?”

Bellamy paused for a moment. Was he? He shook his head lightly and continued. “Yeah, we don’t exactly have medicine down here. She wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

Octavia looked skeptical.

“O, it’s not worth the trouble. Okay?”

“Fine.” Octavia sighed. “But if you don’t get better soon, I’m telling Clarke.” She added indignantly.

“I’ll be fine.” Bellamy said, leaning tiredly against his pine tree. _Hopefully._

Silence took over the clearing for a while. Bellamy was too tired to risk opening another argument, so he kept his mouth shut and focused on staying awake. Octavia stood a few feet away, looking curiously at their surroundings. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back and she drew her foot in little circles across the forest floor. If there was one thing Bellamy was quickly learning about his sister, it was that she always seemed most comfortable when she was cut loose and roaming freely throughout the forest.

“Hey, Bell?”

Bellamy grunted tiredly.

“Do you really need _that_ many leaves?” Octavia asked, a little too innocently.

Bellamy shot her an unappreciative glare. “Go back to camp, O.”

“I’m just curious!” She laughed.

“Go. Back. To. Camp.” Bellamy growled, far too tired to deal with a bratty little sister.

Octavia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fine.” She unsheathed her knife and dropped back towards the forest in one fell swoop.

“And don’t tell Clarke!” Bellamy called out right as Octavia disappeared among the shadows in a flash of loose brown hair.

* * *

  


The following morning was remarkably similar to the previous three days that Bellamy had spent feeling particularly terrible. He was still beyond exhausted. His stomach showed no signs of being agreeable any time soon. And his head throbbed even worse than before, only now it also had the funny habit of feeling like someone had stuffed cotton between his ears.

But he was still fine. He definitely didn’t need help.

Bellamy slouched further against the camp wall, grateful to have found a shaded seat on something that vaguely resembled a bench. (Was it a log? He didn’t care.) He squinted against the midmorning sunlight, watching half-a-dozen delinquents sort diligently through various nuts and berries.

Normally he’d be out hunting, or guarding the wall, or doing literally anything other than sitting and “overseeing” a completely non-fatal task. (Then again, Monty and Jasper _were_ working together, so anything was possible.) However, Bellamy couldn’t deny that sitting propped against the camp wall, conveniently shaded from the obnoxiously bright sun, was somewhat nice. And when he covertly pressed his forearm into his abdomen, it took the edge off the cramping pain that still plagued him. It was almost like he wasn’t even sick. Almost.

An oh-so-familiar voice broke into Bellamy’s head. “You’re sitting.”

Bellamy turned and squinted up at Clarke, whose blonde hair was brightly haloed by the sunlight behind her. _How appropriate._ He held up a hand to shade his eyes. “So?”

“You never sit.” Clarke stated plainly.

“That’s not true, I sit all the time.” Bellamy said, a little defensively.

“You really don’t.” Jasper said from behind his table, arms buried to the elbow in a barrel full of nuts. “It’s kind of weird actually--”

“You get back to work.” Bellamy shot back, ignoring Jasper and Monty’s poorly stifled laughter. He sighed, turning back towards his co-leader. “Why are you here, Clarke?”

Clarke paused for a moment, then looked at Bellamy with an expression full of sympathy. _Fuck._ “Are you feeling okay, Bellamy?”

“I’m fine.” Bellamy replied immediately.

“Are you sure? You look… not great.” Clarke tried again, voice still far too kind for Bellamy’s liking.

Bellamy glared up at her. This was _not_ happening. “I said that I’m fine, Princess. You should mind your own business.”

Clarke leveled him a glare that could kill. “Okay, y’know what?” She muttered under her breath before turning directly in front of Bellamy and clapping her hands onto his shoulders.

Bellamy swallowed nervously, unsure whether or not he regretted his last statement.

Clarke’s hair fell in front of her face, shielding her next words from everyone but him. “Octavia already told me, Bellamy. I know that you’re sick.”

Bellamy felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He shot a glance over Clarke’s shoulder, but Octavia was conveniently nowhere to be found. “She’s lying--” He attempted before being cut off.

“Don’t even try that with me, Bellamy Blake.” Clarke warned dangerously.

“I’m not trying anything.” Bellamy wrestled a shoulder from Clarke’s surprisingly strong grip. His pulse thumped painfully in his skull but he continued anyway. “I don’t know why Octavia told you that; maybe she’s mad at me.”

“You don’t know why?” Clarke laughed in disbelief. “Bellamy, she told me because she’s _worried_ about you. We’re all worried about you.” She added, a little more gently.

“Well you’re wasting your time, I’m _fine._ ” Bellamy stated firmly, holding his ground.

“Oh my god, I cannot _believe_ that I have to do this with you! You’re clearly not fine, Bellamy! And this isn’t about you looking _‘tired’_ or _‘worn-out’_ \--” Clarke accented the words angrily with air quotes, “--You look sick, Bellamy. Really, genuinely sick, and that’s _not_ okay!” She shouted, apparently past trying to keep their conversation private.

A small crowd of delinquents had drawn around them, watching the argument with vivid curiosity. _Great. Just fucking great._ “Well, I still don’t need your help, Princess.” Bellamy growled. He shot up to a stand and immediately regretted his decision.

“I swear to god, Bellamy, you are such a _child_ \--” Clarke scoffed as he swayed on his feet.

“Hey, are you okay?” Her voice called out from underwater. “Bellamy?”

Bellamy blinked against the spots forming in his vision. “I’m fine--” He muttered as his knees buckled and darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

  


When Bellamy came to, he was in the dropship, wrapped entirely in mess of blankets. Only his right arm stuck out of the bundle, due to a makeshift IV that was taped loosely to the crook of his elbow. Bellamy inspected the line carefully, musing that someone must have removed his jacket while he was unconscious. _And my boots?_ “Clarke?” He looked around the dropship, voice cracking slightly from disuse.

The blonde swept into view. “Oh thank god--” She murmured, dropping down to his level.

“What happened?”

“Apparently you were so busy pretending you weren’t sick-- don’t touch your IV, Bellamy-- that you didn’t notice you were severely dehydrated. You passed out while telling me that you didn’t need my help.”

“Oh.” Shreds of their argument floated through his memory. “Sorry... ” He conceded.

“No kidding.” Clarke sat back on her heels. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Bellamy sighed. _This again?_ “I was fine, Clarke.”

“ _Fine?!_ ” Clarke’s voice shot up an octave and Bellamy winced. “Bellamy, you’ve been unconscious for _six hours._ And according to Octavia, you’ve been sick for the last three days, so--”

“Four days.” Bellamy corrected stupidly.

“ _Four days?!_ ” Clarke was up on her feet, glaring down at Bellamy with a ferocity that made him wish he’d just pass out again. “You’ve been sick for four days and it didn’t occur to you even _once_ that you should come see me??”

“What the hell was I supposed to do, walk in here and say, _'Help me, Clarke, my digestive system feels like a sieve!’_ \--” He shot back angrily, “ _‘Help me, Clarke, I’m running out of places to shit in the woods!’_ \--”

Clarke’s mouth hung open.

Heat was rising in his face but he couldn’t stop yelling, “ _‘Help me, Clarke, I haven’t slept through the night in three days because **it won’t stop**.’_ ” Desperation clawed up the back of Bellamy’s throat, and he immediately wished he could take the words back.

Clarke stared at him for a moment. Then her mouth snapped shut. She dropped heavily onto the stool behind her and crossed her arms. “Yeah.” She replied tersely. “Any of those would’ve worked infinitely better than just hiding it until you almost died of dehydration, Bellamy.”

Bellamy paused for a moment, at a loss for words. “I didn’t almost die.” He said finally.

“What if you passed out in the woods? You could’ve died then!”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“That’s not good enough, Bellamy. You just can’t risk your life like that.” Clarke stated firmly.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Clarke.” Bellamy sighed tiredly.

“Your life is absolutely a _‘big deal’_ , Bellamy! I don’t know why you still can’t see that. If you died--” Clarke broke off, shaking her head, “--I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Clarke…”

She looked up at him, smiling bitterly. “You’re important to us, Bellamy. You’re important to _me._ So you need to take better care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay.” Bellamy promised with complete and utter sincerity. 

"Good. Thank you." Clarke cleared her throat and busied herself with something on the dropship table. “And if you _ever_ do something like this again--” She strode over and sat beside Bellamy, steaming cup of tea in her hands, “--I’ll end you myself. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” Bellamy nodded fervently, only half joking.

“Here,” Clarke smiled lightly, placing the warm mug into his hands, “Drink.”

Bellamy took a long swallow, wrinkling his nose at the unusual taste. “What is this?”

Clarke shrugged. “I’m not too sure. Octavia got it from Lincoln.”

“Octavia talked to Lincoln?” Bellamy groaned, thunking his head back against the dropship wall.

“Like I said Bellamy, we were worried about you.”

“But did she have to tell Lincoln?”

“Hey, you can sacrifice your ego and take the help, or you can suffer and maintain your coolness. Totally up to you.” Clarke looked up at him amusedly.

Bellamy sat forward, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t about being _‘cool’_ , Clarke--”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Clarke nodded, jokingly serious. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with that.”

“Shut up.” Bellamy grumbled, returning to his cup of traitor-tea.

Clarke bumped his shoulder lightly when he finished. “It should help though, okay? It might take a few hours, but this should be the end of it.”

Bellamy nodded quietly. “Okay.” He laid back into his blankets, fatigue weighing him down again. “Thanks, Princess.”

Clarke smiled softly, smoothing the blankets over his torso. “Get some rest, Bellamy. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Bellamy hummed in response and closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to rest. And as the tempting warmth of sleep pulled him further and further from consciousness, he swore to himself that he’d keep his word. After all, apparently someone in his life gave a shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Special thanks to Tori (belomiklark), Nikko (chillandgrillbell-amy), and Janson (malecsbabychildxbriller) for encouraging me to write this fic through extreme peer pressure. You all are the worst. 
> 
> As always, I'm still very new to this, so any comments and/or constructive criticism is much appreciated! :)


End file.
